Joseph Conrad  Preface to “The Nigger of the Narcissus” (1897)

¶1 A work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its
justification in every line. And art itself may be defined as a single-minded
attempt to render the highest kind of justice to the visible universe, by bringing to
light the truth, manifold and one, underlying its every aspect. It is an attempt to
find in its forms, in its colours, in its light, in its shadows, in the aspects of matter
and in the facts of life, what of each is fundamental, what is enduring and
essential — their one illuminating and convincing quality — the very truth of their
existence. The artist, then, like the thinker or the scientist, seeks the truth and
makes his appeal. Impressed by the aspect of the world the thinker plunges into
ideas, the scientist into facts — whence, presently, emerging they make their
appeal to those qualities of our being that fit us best for the hazardous enterprise
of living. They speak authoritatively to our common-sense, to our intelligence, to
our desire of peace or to our desire of unrest; not seldom to our prejudices,
sometimes to our fears, often to our egoism — but always to our credulity. And
their words are heard with reverence, for their concern is with weighty matters:
with the cultivation of our minds and the proper care of our bodies; with the
attainment of our ambitions; with the perfection of the means and the
glorification of our precious aims.
¶2 It is otherwise with the artist.
¶3 Confronted by the same enigmatical spectacle the artist descends within himself,
and in that lonely region of stress and strife, if he be deserving and fortunate, he
finds the terms of his appeal. His appeal is made to our less obvious capacities: to
that part of our nature which, because of the warlike conditions of existence, is
necessarily kept out of sight within the more resisting and hard qualities — like
the vulnerable body within the steel armour. His appeal is less loud, more
profound, less distinct, more stirring — and sooner forgotten. Yet its effect
endures for ever. The changing wisdom of successive generations discards ideas,
questions facts, demolishes theories. But the artist appeals to that part of our
being which is not dependent on wisdom: to that in us which is a gift and not an
acquisition — and, therefore, more permanently enduring. He speaks to our
capacity for delight and wonder, to the sense of mystery surrounding our lives; to
our sense of pity, and beauty, and pain; to the latent feeling of fellowship with all
creation — and to the subtle but invincible, conviction of solidarity that knits
together the loneliness of innumerable hearts: to the solidarity in dreams, in joy,
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in sorrow, in aspirations, in illusions, in hope, in fear, which binds men to each

other, which binds together all humanity — the dead to the living and the living to
the unborn.
¶4 It is only some such train of thought, or rather of feeling, that can in a measure
explain the aim of the attempt, made in the tale which follows, to present an
unrestful episode in the obscure lives of a few individuals out of all the
disregarded multitude of the bewildered, the simple and the voiceless. For, if
there is any part of truth in the belief confessed above, it becomes evident that
there is not a place of splendour or a dark corner of the earth that does not
deserve, if only a passing glance of wonder and pity. The motive, then, may be
held to justify the matter of the work; but this preface, which is simply an avowal
of endeavour, cannot end here — for the avowal is not yet complete.
¶5 Fiction — if it at all aspires to be art — appeals to temperament. And in truth it
must be, like painting, like music, like all art, the appeal of one temperament to
all the other innumerable temperaments whose subtle and resistless power
endows passing events with their true meaning, and creates the moral, the
emotional atmosphere of the place and time. Such an appeal, to be effective, must
be an impression conveyed through the senses; and, in fact, it cannot be made in
any other way, because temperament, whether individual or collective, is not
amenable to persuasion. All art, therefore, appeals primarily to the senses, and
the artistic aim when expressing itself in written words must also make its appeal
through the senses, if its high desire is to reach the secret spring of responsive
emotions. It must strenuously aspire to the plasticity of sculpture, to the colour of
painting, and to the magic suggestiveness of music — which is the art of arts. And
it is only through complete, unswerving devotion to the perfect blending of form
and substance; it is only through an unremitting, never-discouraged care for the
shape and ring of sentences that an approach can be made to plasticity, to colour;
and the light of magic suggestiveness may be brought to play for an evanescent
instant over the commonplace surface of words: of the old, old words, worn thin,
defaced by ages of careless usage.
¶6 The sincere endeavour to accomplish that creative task, to go as far on that road
as his strength will carry him, to go undeterred by faltering, weariness or
reproach, is the only valid justification for the worker in prose. And if his
conscience is clear, his answer to those who, in the fulness of a wisdom which
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looks for immediate profit, demand specifically to be edified, consoled, amused;

who demand to be promptly improved, or encouraged, or frightened, or shocked,
or charmed, must run thus: — My task which I am trying to achieve is, by the
power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel — it is, before all,
to make you see. That — and no more, and it is everything. If I succeed, you shall
find there according to your deserts: encouragement, consolation, fear, charm —
all you demand; and, perhaps, also that glimpse of truth for which you have
forgotten to ask.
¶7 To snatch in a moment of courage, from the remorseless rush of time, a sapping
phase of life is only the beginning of the task. The task approached in tenderness
and faith is to hold up unquestioningly, without choice and without fear, the
rescued fragment before all eyes and in the light of a sincere mood. It is to show
its vibration, its colour, its form; and through its movement, its form, and its
colour, reveal the substance of its truth — disclose its inspiring secret: the stress
and passion within the core of each convincing moment. In a single-minded
attempt of that kind, if one be deserving and fortunate, one may perchance attain
to such clearness of sincerity that at last the presented vision of regret or pity, of
terror or mirth, shall awaken in the hearts of the beholders that feeling of
unavoidable solidarity; of the solidarity in mysterious origin, in toil, in joy, in
hope, in uncertain fate, which binds men to each other and all mankind to the
visible world.
¶8 It is evident that he who, rightly or wrongly, holds by the convictions expressed
above cannot be faithful to any one of the temporary formulas of his craft. The
enduring part of them — the truth which each only imperfectly veils — should
abide with him as the most precious of his possessions, but they all: Realism,
Romanticism, Naturalism, even the unofficial sentimentalism (which, like the
poor, is exceedingly difficult to get rid of); all these gods must, after a short
period of fellowship, abandon him — even on the very threshold of the temple —
to the stammerings of his conscience and to the outspoken consciousness of the
difficulties of his work. In that uneasy solitude the supreme cry of Art for Art,
even, loses the exciting ring of its apparent immorality. It sounds far off. It has
ceased to be a cry, and is heard only as a whisper, often incomprehensible, but at
times, and faintly, encouraging.
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¶9 Sometimes, stretched at ease in the shade of a roadside tree, we watch the

motions of a labourer in a distant field, and after a time, begin to wonder
languidly as to what the fellow may be at. We watch the movements of his body,
the waving of his arms, we see him bend down, stand up, hesitate, begin again. It
may add to the charm of an idle hour to be told the purpose of his exertions. If we
know he is trying to lift a stone, to dig a ditch, to uproot a stump, we look with a
more real interest at his efforts; we are disposed to condone the jar of his
agitation upon the restfulness of the landscape; and even, if in a brotherly frame
of mind, we may bring ourselves to forgive his failure. We understood his object,
and, after all, the fellow has tried, and perhaps he had not the strength, and
perhaps he had not the knowledge. We forgive, go on our way — and forget.
¶10 And so it is with the workman of art. Art is long and life is short, and success is
very far off. And thus, doubtful of strength to travel so far, we talk a little about
the aim — the aim of art, which, like life itself, is inspiring, difficult — obscured
by mists. It is not in the clear logic of a triumphant conclusion; it is not in the
unveiling of one of those heartless secrets which are called the Laws of Nature. It
is not less great, but only more difficult.
¶11 To arrest, for the space of a breath, the hands busy about the work of the earth,
and compel men entranced by the sight of distant goals to glance for a moment at
the surrounding vision of form and colour, of sunshine and shadows; to make
them pause for a look, for a sigh, for a smile — such is the aim, difficult and
evanescent, and reserved only for a very few to achieve. But sometimes, by the
deserving and the fortunate, even that task is accomplished. And when it is
accomplished — behold! — all the truth of life is there: a moment of vision, a sigh,
a smile — and the return to an eternal rest.